


The End

by ispun



Series: The End [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ispun/pseuds/ispun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>disclaimer: none of this happened<br/>rating: black flag</p><p>a nico r/jenson button multi-part fic. this is an on-going writing exercise to make sure I'm writing SOMETHING at least every day. if i don't update it, it's probably because i was writing something else. but this is my writing exercise place for when nothing comes and i post without fear of it being shit. so if it's sometimes a bit shit, then that's ok. i'm trying to rid myself of the perfectionism that ruins my life.</p><p> </p><p>i always welcome constructive criticism, kind comments and gentle nagging to write more. if you find any errors, whether they are language-based, factual or formatting, please do let me know.</p></blockquote>





	1. 1

You sit on the sofa, the light outside fading fast. Your mobile is in your hands, but you don’t have the courage to call him, not yet. You think of him sitting in his apartment, 10, maybe 15 minutes walk away and how easy it would be to just go round there, tell him everything. But in an hour, everything has changed for you and your head is buzzing with questions you’re not sure you want to know the answer to.

“The night before the wedding, Jenson? Really? The night before,” she’d shouted, tears streaming down her face. “Couldn’t you have told me a month ago? Three months ago? You must have known.”

And all you could do was apologise because yes, you had known, and you hate yourself for using this cliche, but deep down you had known, you just didn’t want to admit it to yourself and everything you say and everything you think just sounds like a platitude and you hate yourself for it.

“You’re a coward,” she’d said as she left and you know it’s true. You just hadn’t wanted to think about your feelings towards him. You hadn’t wanted, God help you, to be alone, so you’d kept up your relationship with her because it was just easier, it was easier for everyone to just pretend.

Over the years, you’d got used to having Nico Rosberg around. Everyone thought it was funny the way you teased him, called him Britney, called him beautiful, and yeah, in the beginning it had just been a joke. But after a while you’d started feeling uncomfortable around him in a way you couldn’t explain so you’d let the friendship die a little bit. Still polite, but no more jokey banter.

You think back to that first day when you realised. You were already engaged, and you were happy, more or less. You were on the float for the drivers’ parade at Singapore and you’d suddenly realised that you were staring at Nico’s lips as he talked and thinking how it would feel to kiss them. How it would feel to have his stubble against yours and feel the strength of his lean body press up against yours. That night, you’d jerked off in the hotel room shower, imagining him on his knees in front of you, your fingers in his blonde hair as he swallows your cock.

After that, you couldn’t get him out of your head. Your dreams were filled with his yelps and groans of pleasure; with his face as you pleasured him, as the pair of you made love. And then you started noticing little things. In Japan, you’d noticed him smiling back at you when you gazed at him. In America, you saw him look you up and down in a way that could only be construed as lascivious. In Brazil, he’d congratulated you on your win, shaking your hand and, from nowhere, you’d grabbed him suddenly, kissed him full on the lips. It was fine, you’d won, you were high on adrenaline and champagne and in this most macho of worlds, no-one would question what was going on. When you’d pulled back, he’d looked up at you under lidded eyes, head cocked to one side and teeth on his lip. Your cock grew hard instantly and you’d had to get away and for months after, you’d denied it, denied it, but finally, it was the night before the wedding and if you went through with it, you weren’t just a coward, you were a liar and you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself.

You call his number and wait for him to pick up.


	2. 2

“Jens,” says Nico. “How’s it going?”

“I…hi,” you say, suddenly nervous, wanting to slam the phone down.

“How are you?” he repeats. With his perfect private-school charm and subtlety, he doesn’t say “not got last-minute nerves?” or “you all ready for the wedding?” like one of your mates from home would say. He wouldn’t be so stupid as to fall into such an obvious trap. You might be older, you might come across as more confident sometimes, but he’s the one who will always triumph in social situations because he’s grown up in this milieu of poise and grace.

“I…it’s…the wedding’s off.”

“I see.”

There’s a pause and you wonder what he’s thinking. Is he thinking “I knew it”? Or is he thinking “why are you calling me?” You can’t tell. Nico’s giving nothing away.

“Do you mind if I come over?”

“Sure.”

Nico’s place is cool. There’s no other word for it. Everything has been chosen with impeccable taste. The furniture, the artwork, the decoration. And Nico himself. He’s wearing thin grey pyjama bottoms and nothing else, his toned chest lightly tanned under the blonde hairs there. You stare. You’d always thought of Nico as a boy, somehow, even though he’s not that much younger than you. But without his overalls, he’s bulkier than you’d imagined, bulkier than you even.

“You want a drink?” he asks, and you say you’ll take a glass of water, sitting down on the sofa and feeling desperately out of place in jeans you’ve been wearing for a week straight and a t-shirt that could probably do with being washed too.

“So, what’s up?” he asks when you’re finally settled with your glass. He’s sitting in an armchair opposite you and he’s put some music on in the background - something classical, for God’s sake, you have no idea what - and you look up at him, hoping you don’t show how out of your depth you are here.

“I couldn’t go through with it,” you say.

Nico sips his water, pulls a little face and shrugs. He looks you in the eye and he looks - he looks amused. You frown, biting on your lip because honestly this isn’t playing out like you’d imagined. You’d imagined a soft, pliant Nico, only too willing to do your bidding. You’d imagined his hard body flowing into your lap, eager to please you.

“So…why are you here?” he asks, head cocked to one side.

You look at him and shake the thoughts out of your head. Nico Rosberg is not going to make you feel insecure. Nico Rosberg has never been world champion. Nico Rosberg might have impeccable style and sit around half-nude listening to classical music, but he’s not going to make you feel insecure.

“I thought we could go out, get some drinks.”

He smirks. He actually smirks.

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll go and get changed.”


	3. 3

You’re standing at the bar, drink in your hand, trying to look more comfortable than you feel. Nico’s standing next to you, surveying the dance floor with his nose screwed up, and you’re desperately wishing you were anywhere else. Or at least a bit more dressed for the occasion. You’re pretty sure the bouncers only let you in because, well, because you’re Jenson Button. Your ancient jeans and the t-shirt you picked off the bedroom floor don’t exactly fit in with the tight low-cut dresses and sky-high heels and the designer suits that fill the club. Nico’s dressed up too, but unlike some of the people here, he manages to look both casual and like a model. He’s got a slim-cut grey suit on, with a white shirt, and a skinny tie that’s tied in a way that you could only describe as rakish. You’re pretty sure that’s intentional, and it gives him a sort of boyish edge that makes you want to pull him to you and kiss him deep. As you were leaving his place, he’d messed with his hair in the mirror and he’d quite frankly gazed at himself in the mirror, and if your head had been in a better place, you’d have aimed some pretty cutting jibes at Nico’s vanity, but you couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

A woman’s come up to Nico and she’s twirling her hair in a way that means only one thing and Nico is perfectly polite to her; in fact, he’s so polite that it can only mean one thing: fuck off. You’re not quite sure how he manages to do that, but the woman walks back to her friends after a couple of minutes, and Nico rolls his eyes at you.

You try to think of a topic of conversation, but there’s nothing. All the banter you normally indulge in in the paddock, teasing Nico about his hair, calling him Britney, calling him princess, that all seems so inappropriate right now. You realise that it’s because you feel too shy, and that strikes you as kind of weird. It’s not just because you fancy him (shit, you fancy him, now that is weird), it’s something about his poise. In the paddock, the fact that so many of the people around know Keke and still treat Nico as if he is a little boy, make Nico seem young, coddled. And now, he’s here, women and men both casting flirtatious glances at him, while he watches, almost bored by the attention.

“What happened?” asks Nico suddenly.

“Erm, with the wedding?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

You pause.

“I didn’t love her.”

He raises his eyebrows, nods. You keep your gaze on the floor, wondering if you can say something now to him. You’re a little bit drunk and part of you thinks it would be a good idea.

“What time are you heading out tomorrow?” he asks, now, and it hits you like a ton of bricks that you are meant to be going to Korea tomorrow, that the race is in four days and you have no idea when your flight is.

“Not sure. You?”

“First thing.”

You nod.

“So if it’s ok with you, I’m going to head home.”

You just nod again and watch as he walks out of the club, weaving his way amongst the writhing bodies.


	4. Chapter 4

Korea is a disaster for both you and Nico. Kobayashi crashes into you in the first lap and takes both of you out. You storm out of the garage, say a few angry words to the press about what an idiot Kobayashi is, and head towards your car. Martin wants you to stay at the track, but what’s the point? You’re full of unused adrenaline, pumped up and ready to go and there’s nowhere that’s going to expend any of this energy but you have to try. You may as well drive as fast as you can on the street and head to the gym.

As you park up at the hotel, you look across to see Nico getting out of his car. His brow is wrinkled in irritation and he looks up to see you staring. He nods at you, walks over. You shrug at him. What else is there to say? Your slim chance at the championship is gone. Nico’s race was over before it began. You both know how the other is feeling.

“Drink?” asks Nico, and you look at him surprised. You thought he’d be heading to the gym too. Your pause makes him smile.

“I guess you were thinking about going to the gym.”

You nod.

“Yeah, me too. But I just…ugh. I’m so pissed off right now.”

It surprises you how much Nico drinks. You’d never imagined he was much of a drinker, but when you get to his room, he pours out what must be at least a triple vodka for each of you and chucks his down his throat in one go and pours himself another. You sip at yours, still feeling all the nervous energy coursing through your body; feeling the impact of the crash as if it were happening over and over.

You watch the end of the race together on TV, watch Sebastian win, see the champagne flow on the podium. Nico snaps the TV off and groans.

“That crash really fucked my neck,” he says. “Right here.”

He pulls his t-shirt down a little and rubs at the space between his neck and his shoulder. You watch him, this beautiful boy. He is like a boy again, in his jeans and t-shirt, his eyes closed as he tries to work the pain from his shoulder.

In one motion, you’re suddenly on the bed beside him. You need to do something about this, he’s been on your mind for months and now you’re alone in a hotel room. You don’t know if it’s the adrenaline or the vodka, but you sit down behind him, putting your drink down on the bedside table.

“Here,” you say. “Take your shirt off.”

It surprises you that he does so without question. You rub your hands on your sides to warm them a little, taking in the sight of his tightly-muscled back. With gentle pressure, you push your fingers into the dip between his shoulder and neck. You press along it, and he groans. He tilts his head to the side and you see a smile begin to play across his lips. You continue massaging him, gentle and slow, not wanting to cause any damage. And as you press, you notice how he’s responding to your touch, pushing back against you, and it makes your cock throb. You wonder if there’s even any point trying to will yourself out of an erection, when he turns his head and kisses your hand. You stop massaging him then, shocked, your hand still resting on his shoulder.

He tilts his head up to you.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks, not embarrassed, not even really concerned. Just polite, detached, as if he were asking what you wanted to drink.

You stare at him, hard. Is this all some game he’s playing?

You nod.

“Yes. That’s what I want.”


	5. Chapter 5

He turns and pushes you to the bed, his lips fixed on yours as he straddles you. His tongue is in your mouth and for a few moments, you’re so overwhelmed that you’re completely still under him. He slows, kisses along your jawline, down your neck and you groan in pleasure. He grabs your hand and places it on his cock, which is thick and hard through his jeans. You squeeze at him and he grunts into your skin, reaching down to pull at his belt, his jeans.

Of course you want this. Of course you do. This is what you’ve wanted for months and months but it’s not how you expected and you’re not sure if you want it like this. Nico puts your hand back on his erection - he’s not wearing any pants, of course he’s not - and you squeeze it tightly.

He pulls at your shirt, resting his hand on your own crotch before looking up at you.

“Not enjoying yourself?” he asks. That same polite little smile, that same cocked head.

You swipe at your face.

“I am! I…didn’t expect things to move this fast. I thought we would…” You trail off. You thought you’d get to know each other a bit better. Take your time. See how things went. You thought there’d be some kissing, at least.

Nico looks at you amused. He’s the one who’s naked, cock pressed hard against his toned stomach, but you’re the one who’s blushing and stuttering with mortification. He gives a little laugh, his fingertips stroking idly along his cock, legs sprawled over the bed. His blonde hair flops down into one eye in a way you find ridiculously charming. You look at his chest, at the hair that covers it and it’s weird because even though everyone treats him like he’s a little kid, he’s not as lean as most of the other drivers. He’s slim, sure, but his muscles are bulky rather than wiry, his thighs sturdy and defined. He might have a reputation as being the paddock princess, but you’re not sure you’d come out on top in a fight with Nico. And the way he’s lying there right now, legs splayed, cock hard, amused little smile on his lips, he looks for all the world like a Greek God.

“I meant it all those times I called you beautiful, you know,” you blurt out.

He laughs.

“Jens! There was me thinking this was just you working out your adrenaline on me, but you sound like you’ve got a bit of a crush.”

You laugh, dipping your head down and groaning in embarrassment. He looks at you, a strange look in his eyes.

“Look,” he says, sitting up. “If you want to go for dinner tomorrow, I’m around, ok?”

You look up at him. You nod agreement.

“So you’re not going to…?” he gestures at his erection.

“I want to! I do want to, I just, I can’t!”

He laughs again.

“OK,” he tells you. “Well, maybe you should go so I can sort this out and we’ll meet tomorrow, ok?”

You just nod at him again, too stunned to do anything else. You head back to your hotel room, but you can’t sleep. You can’t do anything in fact, so you lie in bed, idly touching your cock, thinking of Nico doing the same. And when you come, it’s his face in your mind, imagining how it would look with his mouth wrapped around your cock.


	6. Chapter 6

You’re sitting at the restaurant bar when Nico walks in, gives the maitre d’ a winning smile along with the reservation name. The maitre d’ gestures to where you’re sitting and you raise your hand in a half-wave, and the pair of them walk over to you. Nico reaches out to shake your hand, his eyes meeting yours, giving you the same smile he'd given the maitre d’.

“Shall I show you to your table or would you prefer to have a drink at the bar?” the maitre d’ asks Nico.

“Show us to the table. We’ll get some wine once we're sitting,” he replies. You walk behind them to the table and the maitre d’ hands Nico the wine list. You’re left feeling weirdly uncomfortable. You’re pretty used to being the one who decides when to sit down, which wine to drink, but here it’s Nico who’s in charge and you’re wrong-footed by it.

Nico’s eyes scan the wine list and he looks up at you.

“Jenson? What type of wine would you prefer?” he asks, a question that’s never fazed you before: you normally just ask the waiter to bring you something good and expensive, but you kind of have the feeling that Nico would find that unbearably gauche.

“Oh, er...red? Something...red?” you stammer.

“Something...red,” he repeats, looking back at the menu. “Something...red,” and you can’t help feeling that there’s some private joke going on with himself in his head so you fold your napkin out onto your lap, and play with your cufflink. Nico asks the waiter a couple of questions about some of the wines and finally settles on something, something French maybe.

“So,” Nico says, turning his attention to you, eyes flicking up and filled with amusement. “What I’ve learnt about you tonight is that you feel uncomfortable in situations where that weird British class obsession brings out your insecurity; you fiddle with things when you’re nervous; and you don’t know the first thing about wine.”

You stare at him until you realise your mouth is probably hanging open. He laughs.

“I’m teasing, Jens,” and he bats your leg under the table with his foot.

After dinner, you walk back to the hotel, Nico pulling his scarf tight around his neck: autumn is coming. Dinner had been nice. More than nice. After you’d relaxed into it, you’d chatted. Not just about racing, but about your childhoods, funny stories about silly things you’d done. The whole way through the meal, he’d rubbed his leg against yours.

When you arrive at the hotel, you’re relaxed enough to invite him up to your room. A drink. You sit down on the sofa, and gesture to him to sit by you, but he smiles and positively flows into your lap. When you kiss, it’s heaven. Slow, deep, your tongues lazily entwined. Your hand goes to his cheek; you need him to be nearer to you, you need this. You grind your erection up into the muscles of his ass, slide your hand round to touch his cock. He groans into your mouth, tenses. When he pulls back from you, you look at each other. Your finger traces the outline of his lips. 

“Hello,” he whispers.

“Hey,” you reply. And you smile at each other.


	7. Chapter 7

When you wake up, Nico’s still lying in your arms, sleeping peacefully. You lie for a few minutes, stroking his calf, images from last night playing through your mind. The way his hand had felt on your cock; the obscene noises his mouth had made when he sucked you, eyes fixed on yours; his face when he came, white splashing onto his stomach. 

You know you’re going to need to get up; both of you have flights today. But you don’t want to get up, don’t want this to be over. Wake him up now and he could turn back into that cool, unknowable man you’d found yourself tangled up with, rather than the cute little princess you couldn’t take your eyes off in the paddock. You frown. Who is he, really? You look at his face to find him looking at you.

“For someone who got laid last night,” he says, stretching his muscular arms above his head, “you don’t look very happy.”

You blink. “I am happy.”

“OK,” he replies, smiling at you. “I need to have a shower. I’ll see you later.”

He stands up, slim body pale in the morning sun, and heads to the bathroom, leaving you no choice but to retrieve your discarded clothes and head back to your own room to get ready and catch your flight.

You don’t see Nico until the next race. You train every day, you go to meetings, you do interviews and promo and you try as much as you can to not think about him, to focus on what needs to be done before the next grand prix. There are photos in the papers, stories of the split with your ex splashed across the tabloids and your PR team are annoyed with you, annoyed for God’s sake, because apparently you should have been in touch so they could deal with the fallout. Why did you split? they ask and some mad part of your mind wants to blurt out “because I’m so fucking obsessed with Nico Rosberg, now try and PR your way out of that” but you just sigh and say it wasn’t working.

You’re in Japan, it’s four days before the race and you’re sitting at the press conference and you know that Nico’s about to walk in any moment and you’re trying to keep your face neutral in front of the world’s gathered media, trying to act natural, when you feel him sit next to you, and your face goes red and you reach out to shake his hand.

“Hello, Jenson, how are you?” he asks, that impenetrable smile on his face.

“Yeah, fine, going good, you know, looking forward to the race, how are you?” you babble and you want to kick yourself but Nico just keeps smiling at you and tells you he’s fine and luckily the press conference starts and you’re saved further humiliation. The usual routine questions, the usual boring answers and sometimes you wonder why anyone bothers with this. And then, someone from one of the Spanish papers gives their question.

“A question for all the drivers: do you see any of the other drivers away from the track, and do you consider them to be your friend?”

Everyone shifts nervously and you’re cursing your luck. Why did that question have to come up? You’re thinking so hard about how to answer when your turn comes that you barely hear what the other guys are saying. When it comes to Nico, he turns to look at you. 

“Jenson and I went out for dinner the other week. I think we’re friends, but maybe he thinks something else.” Everyone laughs and you laugh with them and pat Nico on the shoulder, and hope that your awkwardness isn’t showing.

“Of course we’re friends.” You turn to the audience and give your stock answer for this situation. That of course it’s hard to be friends with your rivals but that everyone gets on.  
Afterwards you pull Nico to a corner.

“Why did you tell everyone we went out to dinner?”

He looks at you, all innocence.

“We did go to dinner.”

“OK, but...”

Head cocked to one side. “You’re not going to make a big deal out of this, are you, Jenson?”

“A big...a big deal?” you stutter because you really have no idea what’s going on right now.

“We had sex. It was nice. We’re not getting married.”

“I never said we were getting married,” and then you look around nervously because you realise your voice was raised. Nico cocks an eyebrow at you, laughs quietly.

“OK, Jens. I’m staying at the Hyatt. Room 375. Come along tonight if you like.”

And he walks away, swinging his hips, sipping from his water bottle.

And you know that there’s not a hope you won’t end up in room 375 tonight.

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: none of this happened  
> rating: black flag
> 
> a nico r/jenson button multi-part fic. this is an on-going writing exercise to make sure I'm writing SOMETHING at least every day. if i don't update it, it's probably because i was writing something else. but this is my writing exercise place for when nothing comes and i post without fear of it being shit. so if it's sometimes a bit shit, then that's ok. i'm trying to rid myself of the perfectionism that ruins my life.
> 
>  
> 
> i always welcome constructive criticism, kind comments and gentle nagging to write more. if you find any errors, whether they are language-based, factual or formatting, please do let me know.


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